Near The Edge Of Light
by The Hitch Hiker's Thumb
Summary: "They must have left in a hurry. Arthur had found a few garments in the closet, flashy clothes that made him cringe with distaste, smelling strongly of cologne, scraps of paper with lines of writing in a language he couldn't read." Nothing can ever be simple when trying to start a new life. / Human AU
1. Prologue

Prologue

_Breathe_.

She had to remember to breathe. Slow, even breaths. Breath in, One two three for five six seven eight, breathe out.

Don't make a single sound.

Just breathe quietly, in the dark. Do not cry. Do not be afraid. Be still.

Camille could hear the footsteps drawing closer. Searching. Opening doors. Calling her.

She can not help but to laugh, for she had pictured life much differently. She was going to be an old woman, successful in both the business world and her personal life. She was supposed to be surrounded by children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, god willing. Someone was supposed to be there to hold her hand. Not like this. Not in the corner of a closet, curled up like a child in the womb.

At the very least, she never wanted to just roll over and take it. If she ever was going to never be the woman she was meant to be, she wanted to fight for it. Instead she ignores the terrible lump in her throat and her heart like a racing horse. She ignores the warm streaks on her cheeks, salty and wet. Too afraid to do much more than breathe.

She knew that no one could swoop in and save her. Not this time.

It could be worse. Camille has very few regrets. Only that she could have worried a little less and laughed a little more and would never be able tell Al that she loved him one last time. A good life. A privileged one. She would miss it.

And so she prays to the god she has always prayed to, and hopes beyond all hope that there is a heaven.

The door opens, and Camille is blinded by the light.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

One of Arthur's earliest memories involves Blackbird and a radio, and dancing around the living room with his mother. He recalls not a single care, in that moment. That song still pleases him. Still feels like home, even though it's been years since his mother last danced.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night,_

_take these broken wings and learn to fly_

_all your life_

_you were only waiting for this moment to arise_

Arthur sings to himself as he unpacks. His new room is larger than his old one, with windows to let in the sunshine. Different. The air smells faintly of roses and perfume, like change. But he finds comfort in the royal blue walls, only several shades darker than the his walls back at home, in the room he shared with Peter and Seamus.

Blue like the ocean.

The previous owners had left some things behind. Included with the house. Bed frames and dressers. Kitchen appliances and two sofas. Fragments of someone else's life. Arthur thinks whoever they were, they must have left in a hurry. Arthur had found a few garments in the closet, flashy clothes that made him cringe with distastes, smelling strongly of cologne, scraps of paper with lines of writing in a language he couldn't read. Poetry. Arthur drops the clothes on the floor of the closet to be forgotten, and the words in a neat pile on his new dresser, next to the record player he had set up there.

As a maker and appreciator of literature, he felt it was his moral duty.

He still didn't fully understand what had inspired his mother to make such a drastic change. To pack up and leave everything behind: her oldest sons, her deceased husband, her home. England, Her country. Maybe he never will quite understand.

He didn't like it here, in this house that he couldn't imagine being a home. It was too elegant, large streak-free windows and dark shutters and an almost hollow interior, like no life could ever be sustained in such a place. It was nothing like the home he had grown up in, the one he loved; small, grungy, cramped. Rustic and almost gloomy, not unlike the surrounding English Countryside. A rose garden was all the two places had in common, a fine rose garden that was obviously well-loved.

The Kirklands had been known for there roses, once upon a time. A family of florists, not nearly as noble as descending from brave warriors or esteemed sailors. There is still some pride, though, to be left for the florists and all the others who never did much of anything to be noted. Arthur feels an unwavering sense of that pride.

Arthur is the fifth born son to the current generation of the Kirkland clan. Bushy eyebrows, emerald eyes. Untamed hair. Stubborn pride and classic English wit. His mother bore 6 sons in all, before giving up on ever having a girl to call her own. He thinks it's for the best, a girl has no place amongst the rough and tough and wild Kirkland boys.

Everything would be completely different if Peter was the Alice mom had longed for.

There's a grand staircase leading from the foyer, with the sort of banisters that Arthur always wished to slide down as a child. He almost expects Peter to try, with all the adventurous excitement of a ten year old, and to break his neck failing. Arthur's bedroom is the first door on the left, so to scold Peter if he ever attempts such a thing. They had been in the house for a week, and he had caught Peter in the act twice.

It isn't that he worries to much. He simply can't shake the overwhelming feeling of dread he sometimes feels walking up and down the steps. Bad things were bound to happen.

For the past seventeen years, his life has been governed by foreboding feelings. Seeing things that shouldn't be seen by little straw-haired boys trying to go about their little, normal, straw-haired lives. Other kids don't take very kindly to the ones who talk to nothing and fathers sometimes hide their concern behind strained smiles. Arthur has gotten good at keeping secrets.

He voices none of his concerns or his displeasure of the new house, and helps his mother unpack. The kitchen, the knick-knacks that will sit on the counters and on top of the fridge, memories. The living room, the dining room. Hanging up paintings and photographs and mirrors. Moving furniture around again and again until she found it to be just right.

At night, he lays in his bed in a room of his own and he dreams of England.

On the twelfth day after taking up a new residence, when Arthur had places a pile of cardboard out on the curb, their came a knock of the door. Loud, echoing around sparsely decorated rooms, around the few boxes that still remained.

Mrs. Kirkland opened her door and her home to a family standing at her doorstep, all happy smiles and blue eyes. A tall man, nearing middle age, a woman shaped vaguely like a teapot. A boy nearly tall as his father, build like an American football player. Genial. Another boy stands in the back, seemingly shorter with his quiet demeanor and willingness to simply disappear. A flower wilting in the shade.

"Howdy, neighbor," The tall man booms, and a handshake is offered.

Arthur stands at the top of the stairs, observing the introductions quietly. There's George and Martha and Alfred Jones. And also Matthew Williams, a nephew or a cousin but most definitely an orphan. His name spells misfit.

His mother welcomes them, and introduces herself. Eleanor. Peter somewhere in the house, Arthur probably in his room. Overactive, anti-social.

Alfred notices Arthur first, and waves. Moving his arm like a dog waves its tail at a new person, a new friend.

"Arthur, sweetie, why don't you come and introduce yourself," Arthur reluctantly abides by her request, ad comes to stand beside her.

"Hi, I'm Arthur," an awkward wave. The adults start talking and Arthur watches Matthew. Matthew, standing shyly, glancing around nervously. He looked out of place, like a polar bear in the desert. Alfred watched Arthur with confident eyes and decided that they were going to be friends.

"Hey Artie, how 'bout you show me your room?"

_No_. An expecting look from his mother. "Sure,"

"Awesome! C'mon, Mattie,"

"Oh, no thank-" He was pulled along, up the steps, by the boy as big as a boar.

Arthur sat on the bed next to Matthew while Alfred examined the belongings he had already placed around the room. Alfred seems too comfortable and Matthew seems too uncomfortable. It was like Alfred had gone and soaked up all of Matthew's confidence like a sponge and became saturated in it, leaving Matthew with none. Arthur was still trying to work out how the two were related. They could have been twins.

"You have a serious amount of records, dude," Alfred was flipping through the stacks currently littered on most surfaces in the room. Arthur had yet to get a bin too put them all in.

"You should see my book collection, if you think that's bad," Matthew looked to Arthur,

"You like to read?"

"A few records recently came into my possession, you should come take a look at them if you want," Alfred spoke over him.

Cool.

"Are you sure that's a good idea Al?"

"Yeah, Artie's not gonna break nothing"

A few minutes with only the sound of Alfred moving objects about.

"So where ya from, Art? You're not from around here."

"England. Northumberland." blank look of not understanding. "Up north, near Scotland."

"Oh gosh, have you been to London? Tell me you have."

"Only a few times,"

"Have you ever been to France?" Matthew inquired with a quiet to compliment Alfred's loudness.

"Never," Arthur scrunches his nose in disgust. It's not that he hates the French, it's just that most of the people he hates are French.

"Oh,"

"Yeah, Mattie wants to go to some fancy art school there,"

"You fancy yourself an artist?"

"Yeah," Even though it was rarely produced, when it came, Matthew had a silent smile. A smile that was beautiful in a way completely different than Alfred's thousand-watt grin.

"Hey, Artie, You can see right into Mattie's bedroom," Alfred laughed, looking out the window, "You ought to get some curtains because Mattie's a peeping tom!"

Matthew flushed a pink, dark and rosy against his pale skin, "Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Yes you are, I know how you and Francis-"

"Don't even!"

Quiet. Arthur felt he was missing something. Matthew stood and rushed out of the room.

"Sorry 'bout that," Alfred seemed almost ashamed, "I should go after him, shouldn't I?" Another laugh, this one sickly and dying compared to his previous, boisterous chuckles. "But listen, we're having a barbeque at my house tonight, and though my parents are probs inviting your mom, I just wanted you to know that you should come. A lot of people from 'round here are gonna be there. And I mean, me and Mattie can't be your only friends,"

"But-"

"No worries, dude, it's not a big deal 'cause you don't know no one yet. So just. Come. Please," Alfred smiles, something warm and sweet and melting, before departing.

_But we aren't friends._

Maybe they could be.


End file.
